Angela has a Shameful Night, or Two

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Angela has a Shameful, but Enjoyable Night. Or Two.

A Texas Congressman picks up Angela with the help of a fat wallet

Caveats: There is no actual incest in this story. There is instead delusional incest, provoked by Angela hooking up with a man who reminds her, rather intensely, of her father. There is, however, sex for money.

**

I was at a conference in New York City. I never stay at the Convention Hotel, despite their special rates for our conference. I hate those huge hotels, so I was staying at the Sofitel, a short fifteen-minute walk, twenty minutes in heels, from the Times Square Marriott. There’s another reason, too, that I’m at the Sofitel: I’m around my colleagues all day long at the talks, and I don’t need to be around them in the evenings, too!

It had been a long day, and I was tired. I decided I needed a cocktail to unwind, and I went to the bar at the Sofitel. I took a table, and sat down, crossing my legs, showing a hell of a lot of nylon, but you know what? I didn’t care. I was just too mentally exhausted to care.

All the men in the bar seemed to be checking me out. I have nice legs, granted, and that’s why I tend to wear short skirts, even though I’m in my early thirties. Other than my legs, however, I’m nothing special. I have small boobs, and I do not show them off. I have nice skin, brown eyes, brown hair, and it’s nicely coiffed, as the bills on my Amex card indicate it should be. I guess I was being checked out so much because I was the only single woman in the bar. For the men fantasizing about some casual sex with a willing woman, it’s any port in a storm, right?

It’s kind of nice to be the object of lust, after a long day at a conference, and for a woman in her early thirties. It’s flattering, in a shameful kind of way. It’s not what I wanted; I’d much rather have been the object of lust of just my former husband Shane, but he was back in what used to be our home, in Indiana, and the former was very operative.

Nevertheless, I was exchanging loving texts with him, even though we were divorced, when the waitress came and asked if I’d like ‘another of the same.’ I was drinking the house cocktail, involving a French champagne and a peach liqueur.

I wasn’t so angry with Shane anymore. It helped that the bimbo he dumped me for, had moved on to another husband who was richer. Her rejection did more to hurt him than my bitterness ever could. I’m just not a mean person, I can’t summon up the anger or the hate that I know I should have. Maybe it’s there, and just heavily suppressed, and will emerge in a fit of pique at some inopportune time. I hope not.

By the time she brought over the second cocktail, my texting days were over, and I was browsing “news alerts” on my phone, when it happened. A man who reminded me of my father (approximately the same age, same salt and pepper hair, same crooked smile, same general gestalt) sat down at my table with me, to my great surprise. I suppressed saying ‘Hi, Dad,’ to this stranger. The resemblance to my Dad was remarkable, even if his face was quite different from my Dad’s face. My Dad is better looking, in my opinion.

“Nice legs,” he said. Well. My father had never said that to me. He had never complimented my body at all.

Come to think of it, he never complimented my mother’s appearance, either, but it was obvious he liked it. Or, at least, it was obvious he liked to fuck her. I still remember her moans and orgasmic screams. My Mom, may she rest in peace, was a noisy fuck — just like me, I guess. They didn’t seem to care that I could always hear them. It led to an interesting adolescence, you might say.

Gobsmacked, for once in my life I had no clever retort to his compliment of my legs, and only managed to get out a pathetic, and quiet, “Thank you.”

Then came the usual mindless banter, are you staying at the hotel, what brings you to NY, etc. During the banter, I convinced myself the man was, in fact, not my father, despite the similarities. He made himself at home, asking the waitress to put all drinks at the table on his tab, as he ordered a double strength, single malt Scotch whisky. He had a commanding presence.

The man explained he was from Cincinnati and looking for some companionship for his last night in ‘the Big Apple.’ He had a southern accent, or better, southwestern. Texas or Oklahoma I’d imagine, but maybe he had lived someplace in the southwest, before moving to Cincinnati.

I ignored his crude remarks about my body, and changed the topic to Cincinnati, which I consider a little gem of a small city, tucked away in the blandest large state in America, namely Ohio. I’m from Indiana, but where I live is equidistant from Indianapolis and Cincinnati, so I know both cities rather well. We discussed Mt. Adams, Grater’s Ice Cream, the Bengals, Hyde Park, and the beautiful architecture lining Fourth Street. We also discussed the strangely named Fifth Third Bank, the Mercantile Library, and the complicated stardom of Pete Rose.

All this time Beşiktaş Escort my mind was racing. He was wearing a wedding ring; so too was I. Was he really trying to pick me up for a one-night stand? Did he care about the twenty-something years of an age difference? Well, some men are like that, I suppose. After all, he was far from Cincinnati, and his wife would never know, unless I gave him an STD, but there was no worry on that score, although he didn’t know that, of course.

James (his name) was not that handsome, but then I was not that pretty. He had a gut. He was balding and had a horrific comb-over. His big plus was that he was smart, and he shared my interest in renaissance chamber music. I didn’t tell him that I was from Indiana, not that far from Cincinnati. I had no plans, and no desire, ever to see him again once I had finished my drink.

Why would he think I was pick-up-able? Did I look like that kind of a woman? God, I hope not! Did he think he himself was handsome, some kind of an old, some might say ancient, Don Juan? If so, he needed to get over himself.

Maybe it was simply because I was alone in a bar, a single woman, who was showing a lot of leg. He was just trying luck; nothing ventured, nothing gained. I finished my drink, and I was saying goodnight as I rose to go to my room, when James said, “Angela, before you go, may I ask you a question?”

I sighed internally, but sat back down, smiling. My mother, may she rest in peace, would have been proud. She always wanted me to smile at men, and to be polite. James then told me a heart-wrenching story about how his daughter had died at the hands of her boyfriend, and how it had destroyed his wife, and now she too was dying of cancer. He had no sex life, and hadn’t had one for some time. I really didn’t need to know that.

We had just met, in a hotel bar, and he had brought up his lack of a sex life? It was clear to me what his agenda was, and I strongly suspected it involved me on my back with my legs spread far apart. Well, everyone’s entitled to their fantasies, I suppose.

My mother too had recently died of cancer, may she rest in peace. In my mother’s case, it was a particularly nasty form of breast cancer, called Triple Negative, which is notoriously hard to treat. The cancer spread, and she died a horrible death.

I felt bad for him. The experience of my mother gave me automatic empathy for him, but not enough to let him pick me up! I made all the appropriate sympathetic noises, and then, now a half hour later, explained I had my conference in the morning and needed to get some rest. I again began to leave. Again, he asked me to remain another five minutes, since he had something he wanted to ask me.

It was close to Christmas, and I don’t know why, but I thought maybe he wanted some female advice on a Christmas present to give to his dying wife. Or, perhaps, he needed some life advice, perhaps about dealing with grief? Not that I’m especially wise, but I’m not especially stupid either, so once again, to be polite, I sat down.

The waitress appeared and she asked if we’d like yet another cocktail? I’d already had a third one while we had talked, so this would make cocktail number four. I was already over my limit on the drinks, but while it was only more or less champagne (which I love) and peach liqueur, I had noticed that light-headed feeling I get sometimes after the third cocktail. I convinced myself I was not too drunk, still in control, that it was not too bad. Now I was soon to be sipping at the fourth? Danger symbols appeared.

“You’ll need the drink once I ask you my question,” James said, seeing my hesitancy over yet another drink. To say that this sparked my interest is an understatement. I was more like, Hoo-boy! Actually, James had scared me. Why was I doing this? Sometimes I’m just much too good of a Christian.

James waited until the drinks arrived and then he dropped the bomb.

“Will you please spend the night with me, Angela?”

I was gobsmacked a second time, and it was not because he said please. Of all the questions he could have asked me, that one had not been in my realm of possibilities. I know that sounds strange, given I had thought all along he was trying to pick me up, but we had developed a rapport. We literally had discussed life and death, and if anything, we had become friends, sharing life experiences of the dramatic, horrible kind. Sex right then was far, very far, from my mind, even if he did remind me of my Dad.

He didn’t suggest we go for a walk together, nor did he offer to walk me to my room, or tell me it was a romantic evening and we should go for a ride and see the sights and lights of New York at night. No, he just came right out with it, and asked me to spend the night with him. That’s maybe how things are done in Texas, I don’t know, but I do know it’s not at all the Cincinnati way.

I sat there, silent and stunned. Perhaps I should have seen it coming? He sat down with me, engaged Beylikdüzü Escort me in conversation, and once I relaxed a bit he played the wife’s cancer card, and lack of sex life, on me. Yes, in retrospect, I should have seen it coming. I just didn’t expect it to be so crude.

I thought back to my ex-husband, Shane. He was alone, back home in Indiana, probably watching Law and Order reruns. He’s a good man, my Shane is. He’s unexciting, mediocre in the bedroom, and unimaginative; but he’s pleasant, loving, and even adoring, and dammit, I like those traits in a man. He’s a good provider, too. There’s more, even a lot more, to life than exciting sex. Still, a little excitement from time to time might be nice. It might be quite nice.

And besides, Shane is history. He wants to get back together, now that his bimbo has dumped him, but that’s not happening. Nope. Sorry, Shane. I love you still, but no.

Like many women, I’d imagine, I’d long had a fantasy of being a whore, or more often, a high-priced call girl, where I do whatever the man wants, submitting to him totally, as long as his demands are within reason. Sometimes I would role play that I’m a call girl, unbeknownst to Shane. As a call girl, I’d be grateful the client (unwittingly played by my (formerly) very own Shane) was so quick to squirt, and only ever wanted to go for it the one time, and invariably missionary position, too. As a wife, I would have liked him to last longer and to have laid me at least two times a night, maybe vary the positions a bit, but you take what you can get. As I said, life is complex, and happiness revolves around much more than just the bedroom.

I knew other men were different. Shane and I had been high school lovers. He had wanted to be middle school lovers, but I made him wait to take my cherry until I was 16, and no longer jailbait.

We broke up when I went off to a different college than Shane did. I became a bit of a party girl my freshman year, sampling the wide world of men, and I even had sex with two men in the same evening, once or twice. I had gone to a frat party and gotten myself a tad too drunk, and I let my animal nature out of the cage, shutting down my otherwise all-powerful brain, which was in the habit of always urging restraint and caution.

My most erotic memory of my college years was being spit roasted, with one guy’s cock in my mouth, and the other in my pussy. Then they changed positions, so both guys ended up fucking me! I love masturbating to that memory.

I also had a precedent for a one-night stand. That time I met a guy at a party at another school, and he took me back to his dorm room, and he did whatever he wanted to do with me. Luckily, all he wanted was some straightforward sex. A blowjob was all it took to make him happy. I realized, though, that I had dodged a bullet, so I was more careful in the future. The point is, I’d been there, done that.

I was lucky. I didn’t get pregnant, nor did I get an STD, my entire freshman year. I owe some big thanks to scrupulous use of condoms. Plus, I had terrifically sexy memories to relive countless times with the help of my small army of sex toys. I called it my 82nd Airborne, since (for example) I liked, with the dildoes, to dive bomb my pussy.

I sobered up after that, however, and dated only one man at a time. It wasn’t too, too hard for those one-man-at-a-time guys to get me into their beds, however, and I got the sexual education some lucky girls get in college, and some unlucky girls never get, for their entire lives. I got an extensive education, shall we say, but it was all just sex.

Shane came to visit me for a long weekend my junior year, and I realized that sex, even mediocre sex, when combined with love, is way better than just sex alone. I fell for Shane all over again, big time. It was not so much for the sex; it was for the love. I miss Shane; it’s really a pity that he can’t keep it in his pants, around other women.

Now this guy in the bar, this guy James, who I thought of as a proxy for my very own Dad, was proposing what Erica Jong calls a zipless fuck. I could enjoy some raunchy sex, live out a fantasy, and nobody would ever know. It was tempting. I answered James.

“Your offer to spend the night with you is tempting, and it might be fun. It would even be, perhaps, of some benefit to your troubled mind, but alas I’m afraid –” I said, being cut-off by James.

“Before you finish and say the dreaded word no, I could offer you $1,000, cash, to spend the night with you?”

Now I was truly stunned, and offended to the core, as well. Did he think I was a whore? Okay, maybe he’s rich, and I’m just a poor Indiana girl, but I have a little self-respect, you know? This is outrageous. I thought about throwing the rest of my drink in his face, but decided to gulp it down, instead. I stared at him. I think I was in shock. Is it possible to insult a woman more grievously?

I thought about the money. It would come in handy. I’d always Beyoğlu Escort wanted our driveway paved, and a thousand dollars (tax free, of course), combined with our savings, might be just enough to have it done. Our cars would last longer, and get less dirty, too, with a paved driveway. With all the rain we’d been having recently, our driveway was turning into two parallel ruts, and an on-again, off-again, small lake.

Of course, it was unclear what would happen to the house because of our divorce. But then, with a paved driveway it would sell more easily, and perhaps too for more money. In any event, there are a lot of things I could do with $1,000, tax free.

James seemed like a nice guy, who was just horny, and turned on by the idea of turning a nice, wholesome housewife, with a rather boring, fairly low paid, professional career, into a whore for the night. If that was his perversion, and it dovetailed nicely with my own. I still had my wedding ring on, since it’s smart to wear one as a single woman in bar, although it sure did not seem to be discouraging James!

“Look, I have to go to my room and call my ex-husband. We speak every evening at 9:30, precisely. I’ll come back down in a bit for a nightcap, and maybe you’ll still be here, maybe you won’t,” I said, quickly rising before James could object. I got dizzy, but willed it away.

He was still there, in the same spot, when I returned, twenty minutes later. I had enjoyed a nice chat with Shane, and of course I didn’t tell him about my option to become a high-priced whore for a night. I did, however, send him a picture of James, that I had surreptitiously snapped in the bar. I wanted to let him know, in the hope it would torment him, that men still wanted me.

“Welcome back,” James said, with a truly sick smile on his face. He knew exactly what was going on. “Is your ex-husband well?” It was the exact sick smile of my father. The resemblance to my father, in so many ways, was just uncanny.

Before I could think further, I said, very softly so nobody else could hear, “Make it $2,000 for the night, cash up front, no anal, and you have a deal.” I looked James squarely in the eye. He nodded, and mumbled okay. I added, “I’m in room 707. Give me fifteen minutes, and bring the cash.”

I grabbed the drink he had at the table waiting for me. I guess he’d figured I’d be coming back.

I panicked in the elevator, almost spilling the drink. What was I doing? Was I really doing this, whoring myself out to a stranger with a southwestern accent, but coming from Cincinnati? Really? Seriously? Was I nuts?

I thought back to my one-night stand when I was in college. Was this really so different? Well, for one thing, I was mature now; for another, I was married. For a third, I was getting paid. Not only was I getting paid, but that was why I had agreed to do it. That made it categorically different from my collegiate one-night stand. It also probably made it illegal! Also, no way was I going to buy him off with just a blowjob.

One aspect troubled me the most. Had I agreed to this ridiculous and outlandish idea because James reminded me, in so many ways and so strongly, of my own father? Would I, in some sense, be getting it on with my father in my perverted mind? Was this incest by proxy? Incest without the guilt? Well, there was always the guilt of selling my body, but I’m talking about the guilt of incest.

Once in my hotel room I brushed my teeth, changed into night clothes, and again called Shane via Facetime. I wished I had brought a sexy nightgown with me, but I hadn’t been planning to become a prostitute! Hearing Shane’s loving voice should sober me up. There was still time to back out.

I pulled up my nightgown to show Shane my pussy. Shane was drooling, so I popped out a boob. He loved it. “I’ve got to go, honey, since as you know, I’m selling my body tonight, and my John should show up soon.” I winked, and Shane winked back. We had often played these little games. Did Shane understand, truly understand, that tonight was real, and not a game? No, of course not. Did I care? Well, maybe a little.

“Sometime you should do that for real. I could watch. Just have your phone on,” Shane said.

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“I know it’s a surprise, but remember all the wild things you did in college? I’ve been jacking off to my imagination of you doing some of them. This would make me a part of one. The John doesn’t need to know,” he said.

“Those were long before we married, Shane,” I said. “Now we’re divorced. You can still jack off to those things, involving me, but it’s not healthy. You need to move on.”

“Good point,” he replied. “If you were to do it, though, continuing the fantasy, what would you charge?”

“2k for the night,” I said.

“That could pay for a new driveway,” James said.

“Come to think of it, yes it could,” I replied, trying hard not to smile too broadly. Too bad we’re selling the house. I would have had a driveway being the memorial to when I was a whore.

**

James was insatiable. I blew him, he fucked me in three positions, and then he wanted my ass. The first time he fucked me, with no foreplay, he took me doggy style. I was already wet, thank goodness, mostly because I was pretending he was my Dad. I had never known before that I had these erotic thoughts about my Dad! He even had the same cock as my Dad.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32